“Kyle,” Zoe said softly, “I’m not an empath, and you’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry,” he said, and hugged Fang. Fang uttered a little squeak—a very undoglike noise—and struggled to get free. Kyle let the dog go.
He’d never been the center of a magical adventure before.
And he wasn’t really the center now. He was more like the fail-safe backup. In some ways, Aunt Megan was the center.
She had sure looked nervous on the camera as she walked into that ratty casino. But she didn’t have to do anything except sit there and look pretty, at least that’s what Rob had said, and he’d meant it too. He thought the Faeries would surround her like moths around really bright light.
So far, Kyle couldn’t tell if it was working. But he’d be able to tell if it went wrong. They’d tested it, and Aunt Megan had a pretty good mental shout, especially after Zoe enhanced his abilities to pick up over a distance.
Kyle swallowed against his dry throat. He’d have to trust everyone and hope this worked.
Because really, this whole thing was his fault. If he hadn’t insisted that Dad drive the Fates to Vegas, if he hadn’t introduced them to Aunt Megan, if he hadn’t goaded Robin Hood, then no one would be in Faerie right now.
But he had, and they were, and he was waiting.
He hated the waiting most of all.
Thirty-eight
Megan poked at the JELL-O, trying to get to the lime slices inside. The JELL-O jiggled, but its surface seemed impenetrable. She sighed and glanced around.
The blue-haired old ladies were still waving their cigarettes, the obese young man was at the buffet proper, filling his plate with the so-called food, and another elderly man peered into the service area, as if he were wondering whether or not he could sit down without a hostess escorting him.
But no Faeries. Was the thing about Faeries being drawn to empaths a myth—the kind not based in fact?
She didn’t even look at the roast beef, which she had gingerly taken a piece from, nor did she try to figure out whether or not the mashed potatoes were edible.
She did wonder whether the Faeries’ lack of time sense applied to how long food had been sitting under heating lamps, and then she shivered, trying to resist the urge to warn that poor young man away from his meal.
A door from the kitchen opened, and a small woman wearing spiked heels and a full-skirted cocktail dress backed her way out. As she turned, it became clear why she had to back out. She had a large tray braced against her stomach. Part of the tray was held in place by a strap around her neck.
She pasted a smile on her face and said, “Cigars? Cigarettes? Cigarillos?”
Megan gawked. A cigarette girl? She’d never seen one outside of the movies. She actually thought they were a Hollywood construct.
“Cigars?” the woman asked. “Cigarettes? Cigarillos?”
Her voice had a warmth to it that Megan hadn’t heard before. It almost shimmered with magic. Her hair was black and cut close, hiding her ears, but her features were delicate, like Zoe said Faerie-features were.
“Cigars?” The word just drifted off toward the end, and it wasn’t followed by cigarettes or cigarillos. Instead, the woman turned toward Megan and raised one painted eyebrow.
Megan froze in her chair, afraid to move, afraid she might do something that would break the moment.
The woman started toward her. The tray really did have cigar packages, cigarette packs, and long boxes of cigarillos. Also, candy cigarettes, and a small box filled with change.
Were they even charging twenty-first century prices for the cigarettes?
Then the woman unhooked the strap from around her neck. The strap slid to one side, and the tray fell to the floor, spilling cigarettes and cigarillos all over the threadbare carpet.
The blue-haired old ladies looked—not to see if the cigarette girl was all right—but to see if anyone would notice if they stole cigarettes.
The cigarette girl headed toward Megan, eyes glittering. The girl’s expression looked like something out of a zombie movie, which made Megan shudder.
The girl reached her side and touched Megan’s arm, ever so gingerly.
“Are you…?” she asked, but didn’t finish the sentence.
Megan had been instructed not to volunteer anything, no matter how much she wanted to.
“The emotion radiates off you,” the girl said, her voice filled with awe. “You’re not real, right?”
“I’m real,” Megan said.
The girl plucked at Megan’s shirt. Megan suddenly wished she had worn a suit or several leather jackets piled one on top of the other.
No one had told her this would involve touching. Or plucking. Or that glassy-eyed stare.
“Wow,” the girl said, ever so softly. “Wow.”
The kitchen door banged open, and a willowy man with a goatee and the same black hair as the girl peered out. “Brooke? Is something wrong? I heard the tray…”
And then he came out, a frown on his upswept features.
“What’s this?” he asked as he approached Megan.
The little old ladies had given up on discretion. They were grabbing cigarette packs and shoving them in purses the size of the Hindenburg.
The two Faeries didn’t seem to care.
“I thought you people were legends,” he said softly. “I never thought I’d see one of you in real life.”
This was real life? Megan preferred her own, even with the psychology practice that she was shutting down. Given her choice, she’d be back in her office at this moment, facing very wealthy, very screwed up, irate parents who had huge trouble accepting responsibility for any one of their actions.
The new Faerie plucked at the same sleeve the cigarette girl kept touching.
“Wow,” he said with just the same measure of awe. “Wow.”
“Chauncey!” a voice bellowed from the kitchen. “Hey, Chauncey, where in the six woods are you?”
The kitchen door opened a third time, and a squarely built man — similar upswept features, same black hair — came out. He was wearing a chef’s apron that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since…well, since time began.
“Hey, Chaunce…”
Then the familiar glazing began, and this guy got a goofy smile. The smile freaked Megan out more than the rest of it did.
She wished she had thought through her side of the plan better. She should have gotten a table in the center of the room, so that she had an open side, rather than a table against the wall, with nowhere for these freaky Faeries to go.
Others were coming in the main door, their eyes glazing as soon as they saw her. Or was it just because they were in her proximity?
She didn’t know, didn’t want to know. She did want to know if Faeries could be held back with lime JELL-O. Or with congealed roast beef.
She hadn’t taken enough burnt coffee, and it wasn’t hot enough to do real damage.
Zoe wanted her to stay here until the mission was over?
That would take all of Megan’s considerable strength. There were at least twenty Faeries in her vicinity, and more on the way.
The blue-haired old ladies were scurrying from the dining room. The obese kid set his food down and scurried after them. Only the elderly man continued to watch, as if he had never seen anything like it before.
Well, Megan hadn’t either and she was part of it. And what was really creepy was they all repeated the same words, and then ended with “Wow,” like she was the Queen of England or Brad Pitt or something.
Maybe, in Faerie World, she was the equivalent of Brad Pitt. Or the Queen. If she had a choice, she’d be the Faerie equivalent of Julia Roberts.
Megan carefully set down her fork—she had been clutching it—and pushed her plates away. The Faeries were pressing against her table, but no one had taken the seat opposite her.
It was almost as if they were afraid to.
More and more came through the doors. This place was getting packed.
With the low ceilings, lack of fans, and no windows, there couldn’t be a lot of oxygen in this place.
Did Faeries breathe air?
Megan suddenly found herself hoping they didn’t.
Because if they did, they were going to use up all of hers.
She resisted the urge to look at her watch, but she sent a mental message, one she knew wouldn’t get through.
Hurry, Rob. Please. Just hurry.
Thirty-eight
Megan poked at the JELL-O, trying to get to the lime slices inside. The JELL-O jiggled, but its surface seemed impenetrable. She sighed and glanced around.
The blue-haired old ladies were still waving their cigarettes, the obese young man was at the buffet proper, filling his plate with the so-called food, and another elderly man peered into the service area, as if he were wondering whether or not he could sit down without a hostess escorting him.
But no Faeries. Was the thing about Faeries being drawn to empaths a myth—the kind not based in fact?
She didn’t even look at the roast beef, which she had gingerly taken a piece from, nor did she try to figure out whether or not the mashed potatoes were edible.
She did wonder whether the Faeries’ lack of time sense applied to how long food had been sitting under heating lamps, and then she shivered, trying to resist the urge to warn that poor young man away from his meal.
A door from the kitchen opened, and a small woman wearing spiked heels and a full-skirted cocktail dress backed her way out. As she turned, it became clear why she had to back out. She had a large tray braced against her stomach. Part of the tray was held in place by a strap around her neck.
She pasted a smile on her face and said, “Cigars? Cigarettes? Cigarillos?”
Megan gawked. A cigarette girl? She’d never seen one outside of the movies. She actually thought they were a Hollywood construct.
“Cigars?” the woman asked. “Cigarettes? Cigarillos?”
Her voice had a warmth to it that Megan hadn’t heard before. It almost shimmered with magic. Her hair was black and cut close, hiding her ears, but her features were delicate, like Zoe said Faerie-features were.
“Cigars?” The word just drifted off toward the end, and it wasn’t followed by cigarettes or cigarillos. Instead, the woman turned toward Megan and raised one painted eyebrow.
Megan froze in her chair, afraid to move, afraid she might do something that would break the moment.
The woman started toward her. The tray really did have cigar packages, cigarette packs, and long boxes of cigarillos. Also, candy cigarettes, and a small box filled with change.
Were they even charging twenty-first century prices for the cigarettes?
Then the woman unhooked the strap from around her neck. The strap slid to one side, and the tray fell to the floor, spilling cigarettes and cigarillos all over the threadbare carpet.
The blue-haired old ladies looked—not to see if the cigarette girl was all right—but to see if anyone would notice if they stole cigarettes.
The cigarette girl headed toward Megan, eyes glittering. The girl’s expression looked like something out of a zombie movie, which made Megan shudder.
The girl reached her side and touched Megan’s arm, ever so gingerly.
“Are you…?” she asked, but didn’t finish the sentence.
Megan had been instructed not to volunteer anything, no matter how much she wanted to.
“The emotion radiates off you,” the girl said, her voice filled with awe. “You’re not real, right?”
“I’m real,” Megan said.
The girl plucked at Megan’s shirt. Megan suddenly wished she had worn a suit or several leather jackets piled one on top of the other.
No one had told her this would involve touching. Or plucking. Or that glassy-eyed stare.
“Wow,” the girl said, ever so softly. “Wow.”
The kitchen door banged open, and a willowy man with a goatee and the same black hair as the girl peered out. “Brooke? Is something wrong? I heard the tray…”
And then he came out, a frown on his upswept features.
“What’s this?” he asked as he approached Megan.
The little old ladies had given up on discretion. They were grabbing cigarette packs and shoving them in purses the size of the Hindenburg.
The two Faeries didn’t seem to care.
“I thought you people were legends,” he said softly. “I never thought I’d see one of you in real life.”
This was real life? Megan preferred her own, even with the psychology practice that she was shutting down. Given her choice, she’d be back in her office at this moment, facing very wealthy, very screwed up, irate parents who had huge trouble accepting responsibility for any one of their actions.
The new Faerie plucked at the same sleeve the cigarette girl kept touching.
“Wow,” he said with just the same measure of awe. “Wow.”
“Chauncey!” a voice bellowed from the kitchen. “Hey, Chauncey, where in the six woods are you?”
The kitchen door opened a third time, and a squarely built man — similar upswept features, same black hair — came out. He was wearing a chef’s apron that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since…well, since time began.
“Hey, Chaunce…”
Then the familiar glazing began, and this guy got a goofy smile. The smile freaked Megan out more than the rest of it did.
She wished she had thought through her side of the plan better. She should have gotten a table in the center of the room, so that she had an open side, rather than a table against the wall, with nowhere for these freaky Faeries to go.
Others were coming in the main door, their eyes glazing as soon as they saw her. Or was it just because they were in her proximity?
She didn’t know, didn’t want to know. She did want to know if Faeries could be held back with lime JELL-O. Or with congealed roast beef.
She hadn’t taken enough burnt coffee, and it wasn’t hot enough to do real damage.
Zoe wanted her to stay here until the mission was over?
That would take all of Megan’s considerable strength. There were at least twenty Faeries in her vicinity, and more on the way.
The blue-haired old ladies were scurrying from the dining room. The obese kid set his food down and scurried after them. Only the elderly man continued to watch, as if he had never seen anything like it before.
Well, Megan hadn’t either and she was part of it. And what was really creepy was they all repeated the same words, and then ended with “Wow,” like she was the Queen of England or Brad Pitt or something.
Maybe, in Faerie World, she was the equivalent of Brad Pitt. Or the Queen. If she had a choice, she’d be the Faerie equivalent of Julia Roberts.
Megan carefully set down her fork—she had been clutching it—and pushed her plates away. The Faeries were pressing against her table, but no one had taken the seat opposite her.
It was almost as if they were afraid to.
More and more came through the doors. This place was getting packed.
With the low ceilings, lack of fans, and no windows, there couldn’t be a lot of oxygen in this place.
Did Faeries breathe air?
Megan suddenly found herself hoping they didn’t.
Because if they did, they were going to use up all of hers.
She resisted the urge to look at her watch, but she sent a mental message, one she knew wouldn’t get through.
Hurry, Rob. Please. Just hurry.
Thirty-nine
The Faeries were leaving, marching away from their slot machines as if they’d received a message from an unseen god. Rob had never seen anything quite like it, and it unnerved him.
Even the Faerie who had her arms around Travers excused herself.
“This’s big,” she said. “You guys coming?”
“In a minute,” Travers said.
John crossed his arms, looking something like his old powerful self. The flo
or pulsed beneath Rob almost as if he were inside yet another machine.
All those warning movies he’d seen about the future—from Metropolis to Matrix—came to mind somehow. He never thought of Faerie as a place as soulless as the inside of a machine, but that’s how it felt.
“Okay,” Travers said as more and more Faeries moved away from them, heading to the exit. “Creepy.”
“No kidding,” John said.
Rob stared at a nearby slot. Lives rotated on it, not cherries. But in the middle of the machine he saw a faint map, and on it, a white glow.
Megan.
His heart went out to her. How was she holding up, suddenly as the center of all this attention? He hoped she was doing all right.
The sooner he finished this, the sooner he would find out.
He glanced around the large—and now mostly empty—main room. “We need to do this thing,” he said softly.
Travers nodded. “Follow me.”
He led them through a maze of slot machines. Sometimes it seemed like Travers was walking them through a wall, only to have the wall dissolve into nothing as they approached. Travers walked through video poker games and baccarat tables and even a stage with a very confused stand-up comic still clutching a mike.
The comic, who was clearly human and looked like he was dressed for vaudeville, saw them and said, “Where’d the audience go?”
“They’ll be back,” Rob said.
If the situation were different, he would have spelled the poor sap to the surface. But he didn’t dare, at least not yet. Mage magic: he wasn’t willing to risk it.
But he asked Travers to make a note of where this guy was so that they could rescue him if they got the chance.
Fates 06 - Totally Spellbound Page 48